Consign Me Not To Darkness
by anoceannothingfloatson
Summary: We are the choices we have made… But what happens when those choices are taken away? After an accident Thomas struggles to find himself as those around him struggle with his past self. AU from mid-season 3. Eventual Thomas/Jimmy.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- **Set mid-season 3, sometime after Jimmy's arrival but before Lady Sybil has her baby, and is wildly AU from this point onwards.

* * *

He blinks awake.

His head seems to explode in pain and he lets out a soft groan.

He hears a voice speak but there's a rushing noise in his ears that masks the person's words and makes them impossible to decipher.

He doesn't try.

He lets his eyes slip shut and sleep claim him once again.

* * *

It's night time when he next awakes.

He knows this because the curtains of the room have been pulled shut and there's a small candle spluttering, on the verge of going out, on the small table next to the bed he's lying in.

There's a person in a chair next to him and he can see by the slump of the body and the even and gentle breathing that they're asleep.

He tries to reach for the glass of water that sits next to the candle but the movement causes his vision to spin and turn to black.

He passes out.

* * *

"Awake, are you?" A woman asks him as he struggles back to consciousness.

His lips are dry and cracked and his mouth doesn't seem able to form words.

He groans instead and the woman seems to understand.

She holds a glass of water to his lips and it takes all of his energy to lift his head from the pillow and take a few small sips. His stomach does flips and his head pounds but he manages to keep the water down. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow, exhaustion flooding through him.

She sets the glass of water back down on the table and looks at him with an annoyed expression on her face, "what, no 'thank you'?"

"Ta." He mumbles as his eyes begin to shut of their own accord.

"I suppose that'll do." She sniffs.

But he doesn't hear; he's already asleep.

* * *

He wakes a few more times and has water and lukewarm broth forced on him in the scant minutes he manages to stay conscious. His stomach twists and turns and sometimes it settles and other times he ends up regurgitating everything they have given to him.

He has come to recognise the people that sit with him. It is usually one of four people, though, sometimes, there are others there, too. They talk in hushed whispers next to his bed and don't expect him to become involved in their conversations. Too often his voice fails him but he always tries to force out a smile in thanks because he knows he has to do something.

Despite the gruff words uttered - a severe looking woman with brown hair always tied up in a knot being the main source of these words - they are very kind to him and he is very grateful for their care.

And, at first, he's too tired to listen to what they say, sleep dominating his days and wakefulness coming in short bursts, but as time passes, as he grows stronger and he manages to stay awake for longer, he begins to worry.

These people that look after him talk about people and things that he knows nothing of and call him by a name that he doesn't recognise and he's terrified that they have him confused with someone else.

On a few occasions he tries to tell whoever is with him about his fears but his voice is too weak from disuse and he manages nothing more than hoarse whispers that don't sound like words. The effort exhausts him, just like everything seems to, and he ends up slipping back into oblivion soon after.

It is a week after the first time he awakes that he is sat up in bed by the youngest of the three women that care for him, the one with the blonde hair and the sweet smile, and given a bowl of broth to feed himself.

"You're not going to get any stronger if you don't start doing these things for yourself." She tells him, watching him with a cloth at hand to mop up the food that falls from the spoon held in his trembling grasp. She makes conversation as she watches him eat, "Mr Carson tells me that his Lordship is very eager to see you back on your feet again."

He doesn't understand, he knows he's not anyone of importance.

He has worked that out because the room he is in is hardly grand and the only people he ever comes into contact with are dressed in the uniform of servants and they speak to him as someone of similar social standing.

"Why?" He croaks.

"I expect it has something to do with the endless complaints he hears from Mr Carson, God forbid the house fall behind its usual standards, but what can he expect? Alfred is only just back to work these past couple of days and Jimmy spends more time worrying after you than paying attention to his actual duties. If it weren't for Mr Molesley agreeing to valet for Mr Matthew then I think Mr Carson would have run himself into the ground."

He sets the spoon back into the bowl, its contents barely touched, and cradles the rapidly cooling porcelain in his cold hands. His head is thundering in time with his heart and his stomach is churning violently and he feels sick.

"Mrs Patmore will be very upset if I go back to the kitchens with another bowl with food still in it." She tells him.

"Will she?" He asks.

"Don't be so silly, Thomas, of course she will."

"Why do you call me that?"

He sees her smile falter, "would you prefer Mr Barrow?"

"No." He says, his voice cracking. This is the most he has spoken since he woke up and his throat hurts to speak but he knows he has to tell her he isn't who she thinks he is. "That's not my name, either."

Her smile disappears entirely, "then what is?"

"I-." And then it hits him.

He doesn't know.

"I… I…" He tries as he frantically searches his mind for the missing information. "I don't know."

And suddenly his whole body is shaking violently and he can't seem to breathe no matter how hard he tries.

He upends the broth over his lap but he barely notices because he doesn't know.

He can't remember who he is.

His head feels like it's about to split into two and his chest about to explode and he tries and he tries and he thinks that, maybe, he's scaring the woman because she's screaming but he can't do anything.

Everything hurts too much and he can't remember.

It's a relief when unconsciousness comes.

* * *

He's not allowed to awaken naturally.

Instead hands pat at his cheeks and poke and prod at his arms and chest until he drags his eyes open.

There are four people stood around his bed and he only recognises the faces of two of them: one is the woman from before and the other is the oldest woman of the three that sits with him, the one who comes in the early hours of the morning and replaces the young man with blonde hair.

She's not the one that speaks, though, neither of the women do, but an older gentleman with white hair and a moustache.

"Now, Mr Barrow," he says, "Mrs Bates tells me that you've been feeling a little confused?"

He doesn't say anything but glances at the blonde woman, Mrs Bates, and thinks he might have felt pleased to finally know her name if he weren't so scared.

"I am going to ask you a few questions in order to find the root of the confusion."

"Why?" He asks, his mouth speaking without his mind's permission. "Who are you?"

"My name is Dr Clarkson. I work in the village hospital. We were colleagues for a time, during the war."

He nods, though, he doesn't remember, "right."

"You have no memory of this, do you?"

"No." He answers, honestly.

"And the people here in this room, do you know their names?"

"I know that that is Mrs Bates," he says, nodding his head slightly in the young woman's direction, "but only because you named her earlier."

"I see." The doctor says.

"This is impossible." The unnamed man blusters, his eyebrows knitting together as he shifts on his feet. "He must be lying."

"I'm not." He says and he tries to sit up in bed but the world spins and threatens to disappear.

"Careful now." The doctor says and he rests a hand on his shoulder. "You're still very weak."

It takes a moment for the world to still and as it does he says, "I'm not lying, I promise, I'm not."

"Tell me, Mr Barrow, what is your earliest memory?"

"I don't know." He shields his tear-filled eyes from view, shame and confusion welling up inside of him and warring with the pain that booms in his head. "Waking up in this room, I think."

"And nothing before that?"

"No."

"Not even how you injured yourself?"

"No." He repeats. "Though my head is very painful. Did I hit it on something?"

"There was an…incident." The unnamed man tells him and there's a look of annoyance on his face. "His Lordship was throwing a large dinner party in honour of an esteemed guest and you were required to stand in as a third footman for the evening. I don't know exactly what happened but it appears that you and one of the regular footmen, Alfred, had a slight mix-up on returning to the kitchen for the meat course and ended up falling over one another at the top of the stairs."

He searches his mind for any recollection of this incident, of a face to put with the name Alfred, but nothing comes.

He remembers nothing beyond this room and the handful of people he's come into contact with and it's terrifying, really. They could tell him anything and he has no choice but to take their word as truth.

"I called for Dr Clarkson right away." The older woman, the one who isn't Mrs Bates, tells him. "You had caught your head on the edge of one of the steps. There was a lot of blood, as you can imagine, even Mrs Patmore went faint at the sight of it all."

"Mrs Patmore?" He asks, remembering the name.

"The cook." Mrs Bates tells him with a small smile.

"Oh." He says.

"This is ridiculous." The unnamed man states. "Are you really expecting us to believe he's lost all of his memories? It's impossible!"

"The brain is a complex entity, Mr Carson, one that I do not believe scientists or doctors will ever fully understand." Doctor Clarkson says and the unnamed man is nameless no more. "Though, I've never seen a case like this before. I will have to get in touch with some colleagues and see what they have to say on the matter."

"And until then?" Mr Carson asks.

"He'll stay here." Mrs Bates says, quickly. "Won't he, Mrs Hughes?"

"Of course he will, Mr Carson knows very well that the matter has already been settled with her Ladyship."

He feels guilt bubbling in the pit of his stomach, he feels as if he's asking too much of people who have already given him so much, "will I be able to work?"

"Once you're back on your feet I see no reason why not." Dr Clarkson tells him. "Start slowly. You've been unconscious for three weeks and your body has become very weak. Don't rush yourself, it'll take some time for your body to build up the strength it has lost."

Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes leave soon after that while Mrs Bates stays with him as the doctor checks his head, his fingers brushing over the tender skin of his hairline and making him aware of the nearly healed scar he didn't know he had, and asks him a few more questions.

"Now, I know this is a lot to take in but I'm going to give you the opportunity now to ask questions if you have any." Doctor Clarkson says at long last.

His mind is swimming and he's not sure whether he wants to know anything else.

But, once again, his mouth speaks without any thought input, "wh- what do I look like?"

Mrs Bates hands him a small mirror from the top of the chest of drawers and he sees himself for the first time.

He has black hair and stubble coated cheeks that do not hide how pale and gaunt he is. His eyes are pale and empty and he doesn't see anything he recognises in them.

"What did you say my name was?" He asks, not looking away from the mirror.

"Thomas Barrow." Mrs Bates tells him.

"Thomas Barrow." He says and he feels nothing for words that should mean so much to him.

Tears burn at his eyes as the stranger that is supposed to be him stares back at him.

"Thomas Barrow." He tries again.

And, once again, he feels nothing.

* * *

In the days that follow the pain in his head finally begins to recede and he spends more and more time awake. He begins to feed and wash himself with minimal help and he even finds the strength to pull himself from bed close to four days after the doctor's visit. The day after, with more than a little help, he makes it to the other side of his room and back.

His visitors return to their normal duties as he gets better and he forces himself to sleep in-between their visits so as to avoid the boredom and loneliness that threatens to overwhelm him.

They still come to him, though, and he is grateful for their company.

Mrs Hughes sits with him while he eats his breakfast and the severe looking lady, Miss O'Brien she introduces herself as, brings him his dinner. Mrs Bates, Anna, she insists he calls her that, sits with him for a few hours in the afternoon and tells him about all the coming and goings of the house.

His supper is brought to him by his only regular male visitor.

'Mr Carson and the others call me James but I don't like that name.' The young man tells him the first time he comes to see him after Dr Clarkson's visit. 'But, before, you always called me Jimmy. I like that.'

'And what do you call me?' He asks in return.

'Mr Barrow but I can call you Thomas if you like.'

'I'd like that very much.' He says and he becomes Thomas after that.

Mrs Hughes and Mrs Bates - _Anna_ - are very nice and they explain to him the workings of the house and what his job entails and what he should expect when he is well enough to leave his room. They don't talk about the kind of man he is, _was_, and he finds their silence on the subject disheartening. He feels ashamed because they are helping him in spite of what he fears is past unkindness.

So he tries to make them laugh and smile whenever they are sat with him and he listens to everything they say, storing the information they give him in his empty mind, and vows to do well by them in the future.

Miss O'Brien is a different matter.

She does not skirt around his past deeds and tells him everything she feels he should know, her words sharp but never cruel, and he knows she does not judge him for what he has done.

There is a softness to her that she tries to keep hidden but he sees anyway.

It's in the lines at the corner of her eyes, the smiles that are barely there and the hands that shake ever so slightly when she catches sight of the fresh scar at his hairline.

He trusts her without ever thinking that he shouldn't.

'We were good friends, weren't we?' He asks her one afternoon as she sips tea and he picks at a slice of thickly buttered bread.

'We were as thick as thieves.' She tells him and this makes him happy.

His favourite time of the day, though, is the half an hour or so he spends with Jimmy while they eat supper.

Jimmy always sits on the end of the bed instead of the chair and lays the tray with whatever Mrs Patmore has loaded it with between them. Jimmy is all smiles and talks about whatever comes into his mind, not careful about what he says like the others sometimes are, and treats him as if he is no different to what he ever was.

He looks forward to his time with Jimmy, however brief it is, and the way his heart races and warmth rises in his chest.

* * *

"You were always kind to me, you know." Jimmy tells him one evening, a week and a half after Dr Clarkson's visit.

"I was?"

"You sound surprised." Jimmy says and he's smiling. "Have you heard something you rather you hadn't?"

"Something like that." Thomas tells him.

"I shouldn't worry about it if I were you, you've got enough on your plate as it is." Jimmy takes a bite out of the cheese he's holding in his hand, chewing and swallowing before speaking once more, "when are you going to start eating downstairs again? Everyone's eager to see you up and about again after what happened, they'd tell you themselves, of course, but Mr Carson's been very strict about visiting rules. I don't know what he thinks is going to happen if the girls come up to the manservant's quarters. Don't know how we'd have cared for you in the early days if Mrs Hughes hadn't talked some sense into him."

Thomas pauses before asking his next question, "was it very bad?"

Jimmy nods, "there was lots of blood."

"Did you see what happened?"

"Not exactly, I was a little ways behind you and Alfred. By the time I got to the top of the stairs you two were already at the bottom in a heap. I thought you were both dead before Alfred started shouting blue bloody murder about his ankle."

"Did he break it?"

Jimmy snorts, "did he heckers, he twisted it was all. Lucky sod got two weeks off to rest it while I ran around like a madman doing his duties and mine."

"But you still came and sat with me." Thomas says and he tries not to smile.

"Course I did." Jimmy doesn't hide his smile. "I figured you'd do the same for me."

"I'd hope so."

"You would." Jimmy tells him.

* * *

He doesn't sleep well that night but spends hours fitfully dreaming of things he doesn't remember when he wakes up.

He drags himself out of bed an hour before dawn and washes in the basin of water in his room before carefully shaving, managing to cut himself only once as his hands quake.

He dresses himself in the suit Jimmy had pulled from his wardrobe the night before, barely noticing the way it hangs from his frame, and combs his hair in such a way as to shield the scar on his head from view, parting it to one side and dragging his fringe over the top of his forehead.

He leaves his room after this, knowing he is much too early for breakfast but unable to spend any more time trapped in his room, and works his way down the corridor and to a set of stairs.

He descends slowly, clinging to the bannister desperately, his vision swimming, and makes it to the bottom without incident. He pauses there momentarily and catches his breath.

He can hear the banging of pots and pans coming from down the corridor and nerves twist in his stomach and he thinks he might be sick.

He worries that he's not ready to meet everyone yet, that he's going to forget all the names that Mrs Hughes, Anna, Miss O'Brien and Jimmy have mentioned or that he's not going to be able to match names to faces from the descriptions he's been given.

He worries that he's going to disappoint the people who have given so much of their time to nurse him back to health and it terrifies him.

He thinks about going back to bed and putting this off for another day but dismisses the idea quickly.

Not trying would be worse, he knows this.

So, he straightens his back and follows the sounds to the kitchens and pretends that he's not frightened.

He doesn't expect the response he receives on entering the kitchen.

"Mr Barrow!" A young woman shouts, smiling brightly and advancing on him without thought for the task she was halfway through. "I'm ever so pleased to see you! I've been so worried, you see, after your fall and with Mr Carson not letting us come and see you and all that."

He forces himself to smile and say something in return, a blush rising in his cheeks as he stumbles over his words, "Ji- Jimmy told me about Mr Carson."

"Don't you think it unfair? Us not being allowed to come see you?"

"I'm sure Mr Carson had his reasons." He replies, recovering himself quickly.

She opens her mouth to say something else but is cut off when another woman enters the kitchen and cuts her off, "Ivy! Mrs Patmore'll have your guts for garters if you don't have that oven lit before she comes down."

It's Ivy's turn to blush as she rushes off to do as she's told and the second woman takes her place in front of Thomas.

"Is it true?" She asks him, suddenly timid and wide eyed. "Do you really not remember us?"

"I know who you are." He tells her.

"You do?" He face crumples into a frown. "But how? Mrs Hughes said that you lost all your memories, she said you didn't even know your own name…"

"And do you know what she said to me?"

"No."

"That'd I'd run into two young ladies in the kitchen who can't keep their noses out of other people's business." The woman blushes and he gives her the smallest of smiles to let her know he's only teasing. "And since you've already called her Ivy that only leaves one option of who you could be. It's very nice to meet you, Rosie."

"Rosie? I'm not Rosie, my name is Daisy." She says, looking very worried, glancing back at Ivy who appears equally concerned.

His smile widens, "I know, I'm only pulling your leg, Daisy."

"So you _do_ remember?"

"What? No, I don't-." His smile fades but he keeps his voice firm and even, "no, I don't remember anything."

"Oh." She says as she wrings her hands in her in her apron. She doesn't look at him as she says her next words, "you look pale, why don't you go and sit down in the servant's hall and I'll bring you some tea through?"

"Yes." He says, knowing he is being dismissed without really understanding why. He thinks he might have said something wrong but he is not sure what it could be. "Yes, I think a sit down will do me some good. Thank you, Daisy."

He pauses at the doorway and looks back to the two women who are looking in any direction but his, "the servant's hall?"

"Just on your right." Ivy tells him.

He nods his thanks and leaves.

* * *

Thomas finds he has no appetite at breakfast.

Mrs Hughes encourages him to eat but he can't, the mere smell of toast is enough to make his stomach twist violently and bile rise in the back of his throat.

He keeps his eyes on his plate but he knows that he's being stared at.

Mr Carson, who is sat at the head of the table, and Mrs Hughes, who is on his left, try to carry on conversation as if there is nothing out of the ordinary but it is stilted and uncomfortable.

Thomas feels his skin itch and his hands tremble when he picks up his teacup, spilling the warm liquid over his hand, the normal one and not the other which he has hidden underneath a glove he found in one of the drawers in his bedroom, and he quickly replaces it in the saucer.

Mrs Hughes hands him a napkin without a word and he sends her a grateful smile in return.

Jimmy nudges him in the ribs, "are you okay?"

Thomas ducks his head down and whispers loud enough for only Jimmy to hear, "I wish they wouldn't stare."

"What did you expect?"

"I- I don't know." Thomas tells him. "Not this."

"You'll be fine." Jimmy says and he pats him on the leg. "Miss Sybil is due to have her baby soon, as soon as that happens the gossip mill will move on."

"I hope so." Thomas says and he tries not to think about the heat of Jimmy's hand on his leg. "I don't like all this attention."

"I never thought I'd hear those words coming out of your mouth." Miss O'Brien says from across the table, having caught most their conversation. "But then I suppose with what's happened… We can't expect you to be the same, can we?"

"What are you trying to say, Miss O'Brien?" Jimmy asks, his tone sharper than Thomas has ever heard it.

"I'm not trying to say anything." Miss O'Brien says and she gives Thomas a small smile which Thomas returns, not understanding Jimmy's reaction because Miss O'Brien has only ever been kind to him.

And she had been his friend before, too, and he doesn't think he can say the same for many of the others sat around the table with him.

"When do you expect you'll be back at work?" Anna asks him.

Thomas looks to Mr Carson, "I don't know. Whenever Mr Carson thinks I'm ready, I suppose."

"His Lordship is very eager to see how you're getting on." Mr Carson says, setting down his newspaper and picking up his tea. "Perhaps you should accompany me while I dress him for the day. He's seems most keen to learn more about your…condition and I daresay it would be a good opportunity for you to see what is expected of you if you're to remain at Downton."

He shrinks under the weight of the stare the older man levels at him but lifts his chin and meets the older man's gaze, "yes, Mr Carson."

"Remember what the doctor said and don't let him push you too hard." Mrs Hughes tells Thomas, sending Mr Carson a sharp look before returning her gaze to him and frowning, "you're looking a tad peaky, are you sure you wouldn't prefer to rest for a while? Seeing his Lordship can always wait until tomorrow."

"I'd prefer to do it today." He says even as nerves make his mouth grow dry. "Get it over and done with, if you know what I mean."

"Of course." Mrs Hughes gives him a soft smile and refills his teacup. "Now eat your toast. It won't do to have you passing out in front of his Lordship."

"It most certainly won't." Mr Carson states, dryly.

He feels the colour rise in his cheeks at being chastised like a child in front of the other staff, especially as he knows that they're all listening intently, but he doesn't say anything.

He knows they're right.

"Barrow, my good chap!" The grey haired man exclaims, approaching him with a hand held out to shake. "It's bloody good to see you!"

Thomas takes it, tentatively, unsure if he is allowed to do so but refraining from looking to Mr Carson for guidance, and offers the man a smile, "it's nice to me- to see you again, too."

He covers himself quickly because he knows he's met this man this before, worked for him for a number of years, even if he doesn't remember doing so, and he doesn't want to appear stupid in front of him.

"Carson didn't tell me you were going to be back to work so soon."

"He, ah, he didn't know." Thomas tells him and steps back to the edge of the room like he had been instructed to do so by Mr Carson as the butler steps forward to begin his duties.

"Indeed, my Lord. Mr Barrow joined us for breakfast this morning and I thought it might be worthwhile for him to see what it is he is to do once he returns to work." Mr Carson says.

"And when do you think that will be?" Lord Grantham asks. "I can imagine you're very eager for everything to get back to normal."

"Yes, Lord Grantham." He says and pauses before adding, "though, I'm not quite sure what normal is exactly."

"Of course, forgive me, Barrow, I just find this whole situation most peculiar."

"As do we all, my Lord." Carson drawls, helping his Lordship into his shirt.

"Can you truly remember nothing?" Lord Grantham asks, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

"Not beyond waking for the first time." He answers. "It is very strange."

"Yes, I can imagine so. And how have the other staff been treating you?"

"Very kindly, my Lord, though, some of them forget to introduce themselves and force me to ask after their names. It can… It can make things awkward."

"And is it not very strange?"

"My Lord?"

"Being surrounded by all these people who know so much more about you than you do yourself."

He tries to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat but finds himself unable to do so.

He closes his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness and tries not to think about Lord Grantham's words because the truth of them cuts at him deeply.

"Barrow?"

"If- if it's alright with you, my Lord, I think I'd like to go rest. I suddenly feel very unwell."

It isn't a lie.

"Was it something I said?"

"No." He says, bringing a shaking hand to his eyes and blocking his view of the spinning room. He hears Mr Carson clear his throat and in a shaky voice he adds, "my Lord."

"Do you need Carson to take you back downstairs?" Lord Grantham asks.

"I should be able to find my way, your Lordship." He tells the older man and makes a hurried exit.

He can feel the world slipping away from him and he doesn't want to embarrass Lord Grantham or Mr Carson by fainting in front of them.

He regrets not listening to Mrs Hughes.

Still, he finds his way back to the servant's staircase without losing his way and he is grateful for not meeting anyone on the journey. He knows he's not in any fit state to make conversation and all he wants to do is return to his bedroom, fall into bed and sleep until this horrible illness has passed.

And the world is spinning and his limbs feel heavy and he just needs to get to his room.

Everything will be better if he can get to his room.

There he can be alone.

He wants to be alone.

Because Lord Grantham is right, everyone knows him better than he knows himself.

He is not the person they all know and they no longer know how to interact with him.

He is a stranger wearing the face of a friend.

And yet…

And yet that's not it.

He doesn't think he was a friend, not to most of them, and this confuses him because he has lived and worked with these people for close to ten years, if the words of Mrs Hughes are to be trusted, and he thinks they are, and yet he has but a few friends among them.

It hurts.

His head hurts.

Bright lights are flashing in front of his eyes and his head feels as if it has been split in two and he's halfway down the stairs to the servants' area.

All he has to do is reach the bottom of these stairs, travel a few feet down the hallway and then crawl up the next staircase to his bedroom.

It is not far but it feels a world away.

His vision blacks out for a moment and his knees buckle and the only reason he doesn't tumble down the stairs is his desperate hold on the bannister.

He clenches his eyes shut and holds onto the railing with all his strength and waits for strength to return to him.

His breath is coming in huge, wet gasps and he thinks maybe he's crying but the pain is unbearable and he feels himself on the edge of oblivion.

"Mr Barrow?" He hears a male voice ask. "Mr Barrow, are you okay?"

Then strength leaves him and he starts to fall.

His hold on consciousness slips away.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N- **Chapter two! Thank you to those that reviewed! Please continue to let me know what you think! I love to read people's thoughts about my work :)

* * *

The first thing he is aware of is the agony in his head.

The second is the sound of feet on wooden floors and the sensation of being carried.

It takes him a few more moments to work out that the hard surface pressing into his stomach is a shoulder and that the warmth on the back on his legs are hands holding him in place.

He tries to make a noise, to give some indication that he's awake, but he is exhausted.

He is even too drained to open his eyes.

He doesn't react when he's jostled and his left arm hits something solid because he can feel no pain but that in his head.

"Careful, Alfred." He hears Mrs Hughes scold. "Are you trying to cause the poor man more damage?"

"I lost my grip." Alfred says and Thomas realises his voice is the same as the one before the world fell away. "I'll be more careful, Mrs Hughes."

A third pair of footsteps join them as Jimmy's voice filters through to Thomas' ears, "I've called for Doctor Clarkson, Mrs Hughes. He said he'll be here as soon as he can but he has to go to one of the farms first."

"And Mr Carson?"

"Still with his Lordship." Jimmy says. "Mrs Patmore says breakfast'll be ready to take up in a few minutes and that one of us should probably-." Jimmy cuts himself off as Thomas' shoulder hits something. "Alfred, do you want me to take him?"

"No, I can manage. He's not very heavy." Alfred says and he sounds short of breath. "And I feel I ought to, after what happened-."

"Then why do you look like you're going to drop him?" Jimmy asks, his voice hard.

"I'm not! The stairs are very narrow is all and-."

But Thomas doesn't hear anything else.

His head comes into contact with a hard surface and the world melts away as the pain becomes too much to bear.

* * *

The person sat on the edge of his bed knows he's awake before he does.

They dab at his forehead with a cool cloth, squeeze his ungloved hand and whisper words of encouragement as his eyelids flicker.

"How are you feeling?" He's asked once he manages to pry his eyes the whole way open.

He is too exhausted to speak, too exhausted to do much of anything, but his head no longer hurts as fiercely as it did so he quirks his lips in a feeble attempt at a smile.

Mrs Hughes' smile is a real one, soft and understanding, and he wonders if his mother is anything like this woman.

He wonders if she ever sat by his bedside, nursing him through illness, and watching him with the same tenderness in her eyes as Mrs Hughes is looking at him with now.

If she is a good woman, if she is proud of him and the man he has become.

And why… And why she isn't with him now.

Had the staff at Downton sent word to her and she had refused to come?

Had she claimed she was she too ill? Too feeble to travel?

He doesn't like to think of the other possibility, that perhaps she's dead, because the pain is almost too much to bear.

And he doesn't understand his sudden yearning for a maternal figure, for someone to love him and help him and guide him through this without expecting anything from him, but the hole left by this absence is gaping.

Tears slip from his eyes and he can do nothing to stop them.

"That bad?" Mrs Hughes asks and she gives his hand another squeeze. "Just hang on a little longer, Dr Clarkson is on his way."

"S'rry." He somehow manages to say and he doesn't understand where the strength comes from because exhaustion is pulling at him, threatening to drown him, and yet he has said everything he needs to.

Because he understands what he is to Mrs Hughes, to all the people at Downton, and he knows they won't put up with him for much longer, not when they have no obligation to him.

He's not family and he doesn't think he was a friend.

They owe him nothing but still they have helped him and he feels guilty.

His condition has left him a deadweight and every day that he struggles to return to health and usefulness adds to the burden he is forcing them to carry. Because he's seen the tired expressions on the faces of those around him and the slumped shoulders that he suspects are usually absent and he knows it is because of him.

Shame wells up within him, mixing with the guilt, and he wants to stop the flow of tears but his desire does not translate into action.

He's just too tired.

"And what are you sorry for, exactly?" Mrs Hughes asks and he thinks she might be angry with him because her voice is harder than it was before. "Not listening to me at breakfast, perhaps? I do hope you know that when I speak it is not because I like the sound of my own voice but because I am trying to be of help."

"S'rry." He mumbles again and suddenly it is all he can say or do or think. "S'rry, s'rry."

He closes his eyes to shield himself from the disappointment on Mrs Hughes' face because that's all he can manage.

He knows he has let her down.

After everything she has done for him, he has let her down.

And he's so sorry, so terribly and horribly sorry, and he doesn't know if there's anything he can do to make up for what he's done.

"Now, now, we'll have a less of that." She tells him and cool hands wipe away the tears that stream down his cheeks. "The world isn't ending and nothing has happened that can't be fixed."

"S'rry," he whispers and he turns his head away from her touch.

He does not deserve her comfort.

"Thomas." She says. "Thomas, I want you to look at me."

"No." He breathes, drawing the word out.

"Thomas." She says again and there's something in her voice that he can't ignore.

It takes all of his energy to drag his eyes open and he searches her face for any signs of anger or disappointment.

There are none and he doesn't understand.

He didn't listen to her and now he has made himself ill, forcing her to care for him once again, and yet nothing about her demeanour suggests that she is frustrated with him.

"S'rry."

"You're a proud young man." She tells him. "One who I've never known to ask for help, not in all the years we've worked together. I should have known better than to let you go traipsing up to see his Lordship on your first day out of bed."

She smoothes his hair and dries his tears and this time he lets himself lean into her touch.

"I can't imagine what this must be like for you, to wake up and not know anybody, but I know you must be frightened and I don't blame you. I doubt I'd even want to get out of bed if I were in your place and yet you haven't given up." She covers his hand with both of hers and smiles at him, fondly. "You may have lost your memories, Mr Barrow, but you are still the same stubborn, proud fool you have ever been."

Warmth envelops him and he fights to return her smile as sleep calls for him.

"Rest." She says. "I'll wake you once the doctor arrives."

This time he takes her advice.

* * *

He is woken in the early afternoon and is unsurprised to see Mrs Hughes still in the room with him, though, she is now standing and the chair at his bedside has been moved to the edge of the room.

Dr Clarkson is there, too, and he asks Thomas questions and feels at his forehead and gives him a foul tasting medicine that leaves his head thick, his voice slurred and his body threatening him with sleep.

"Your body isn't ready for work just yet, you shouldn't push yourself at this stage in your recovery as you'll end up doing more harm than good." Dr Clarkson says. "I recommend another day or two abed before attempting anything more taxing. You have to keep in mind that a recovery such as this does not happen overnight."

"Of course, Doctor." Mrs Hughes replies when Thomas' thoughts drift and he finds himself without an answer. "I'll keep a better eye on him."

He hears them speaking but his mind is unable to process their words.

"Any sign of fatigue and you must get him to rest, Mrs Hughes. I don't believe his mind will start to recover itself until his body is fully fit."

He finds himself frowning at his left hand, transfixed on the ugly scars that mar his pale skin, and wonders when his glove came off.

"Do you think there's a chance that he might..?"

And then he realises he's no longer dressed in his suit but his underclothes and he tries to remember when that happened but his mind is clouded with fog and he is drawn back to his hand.

"I believe so, I have spoken with-."

There's a knocking sound that somehow times itself with him clenching his bad hand into a fist and he doesn't think he should be able to make such a noise.

Then suddenly Mr Carson and Lord Grantham are in his room and he's scrabbling into a sitting position even as the world spins and hands try to steady him.

"L- Lord Gra'am." He says and he hopes they understand because he is unable to make sense of his own words. "S'rry, s'jus'res'ing. Din't-."

"Don't trouble yourself, Barrow, it is I who should apologise for interrupting." Lord Grantham says, offering Thomas what he thinks is a polite smile. "Alfred told me what happened at breakfast this morning and I wanted to see how you were getting on. Do continue, Clarkson."

"Of course, my Lord. I was just telling Mrs Hughes that Mr Barrow simply pushed himself too hard much too early. I've given him something to help with the pain in his head and as you can see it's made him a tad woozy but this should pass in the next couple of hours once he's managed to get some sleep." Dr Clarkson explains.

"Very good." Lord Grantham says as he straightens his jacket and Thomas can't help but stare.

His Lordship's clothes are very fine, much finer than his own, and Thomas wonders where he can get a waistcoat with such shiny buttons.

"There's something else, my Lord." Mrs Hughes says, distracting him from his Lordship's buttons. "Dr Clarkson thinks there's a chance Mr Barrow might regain his memories."

"Is that so?" Lord Grantham asks. "How do you plan on achieving that? Some kind of surgery?"

Thomas finds himself making a sound that's somewhere between a question and a frightened moan and he looks to Mrs Hughes with wide and desperate eyes.

"Surely not." Mrs Hughes says and Thomas thinks that she takes a step towards him before catching herself but he can't be sure because she's fuzzy around the edges and he has to blink over and over to bring her back into focus. "Wouldn't that be dangerous?"

"Very much so but I believe that such a drastic action won't be necessary." Dr Clarkson tells them and Thomas tries to concentrate on what they're saying but all he can think about is blood and strangle-looking knives and pain. "I have spoken with a colleague in Edinburgh who specialises in matters of the brain and he would be most interested in travelling to Downton in order to examine Mr Barrow's case further."

"Yes, he will stay here, of course." Lord Grantham asks, "When does he plan on arriving?"

And he doesn't understand how they can talk about it all so calmly.

Do they not care about him?

"Not for a week or two, he wants to-."

And Thomas can't listen anymore as they plan what is sure to be his death, "no, nooooo."

"Mr Barrow?"

"Don't want… Don't want t'die."

"What _are_ you talking about, Barrow?" Lord Grantham asks and Thomas can't work out if he's angry or confused or both.

"I think the medicine has him a little confused, my Lord." Mrs Hughes says and he grasps at her hand when she steps closer to the bed and is reassured when she holds his hands just as tightly in return.

"Perhaps we ought to continue this upstairs, my Lord?" Mr Carson suggests.

And Thomas doesn't listen to the rest because all he can think about is blood and death.

About death and blood.

And pain.

So much pain.

He doesn't want to be in pain.

And he doesn't know how or when it happens but suddenly there are arms around him and he is breathing in a soft and feminine scent.

He isn't crying but his whole body is shaking and his hands are desperately clutching at the skirt of Mrs Hughes' dress and she is rocking him backwards and forwards and rubbing at his back in soothing circles.

"You're fine." She tells him. "The medicine just has you a bit muddled is all. You're fine."

"Don't want-." He whispers and she cuts him off.

"You won't ever have do anything you feel uncomfortable with." She says to him in a soft voice. "I promise."

And he believes her.

* * *

The next time he goes down for breakfast is two days later.

He is still tired and out of sorts and he sits in the seat next to Mrs Hughes while they eat and doesn't involve himself in the conversation around the table.

He knows that Jimmy and Anna are worried and that Miss O'Brien is curious but he's not quite well enough yet to pretend that he's okay.

Mrs Hughes has kept them from his room while he has recovered his strength and his wits after a 'troubling reaction', in the words of Dr Clarkson, to the pain medication he had been given and, as much as he missed their conversation, he is glad.

The previous days have been a confusing swirl of consciousness and dream and words slipping from a loose mouth and he is relieved that only Mrs Hughes, wonderful and kind Mrs Hughes, was there to witness his weakness.

He has missed them, though.

He has missed Anna's sweet smile and Miss O'Brien's no-nonsense ways and Jimmy's lively chatter and it makes him sad that they don't speak to him very much at breakfast.

No one does.

He guesses that Mr Carson or Mrs Hughes have said something to the staff about giving him his space and he supposes, for this first morning at least, while his head is still thick and his body still slow, it is a good thing.

He helps Ivy and Daisy clear the table once everyone has finished eating before retiring to his room and spending the time that he is not asleep reading the newspaper Mr Carson discarded with after breakfast.

Miss O'Brien brings him his dinner and sits with him while he eats.

"You're looking better." She says.

"I feel better." He tells her. "Thanks to Mrs Hughes. She has been very kind to me."

"Has she now?" Miss O'Brien asks and there's something about her tone that sets Thomas on edge. "She never cared much for you before."

He sets his knife and fork down and tries to keep the tremor from his voice, "did she not?"

Miss O'Brien shakes her head, "no. In fact, there were times when she seemed quite keen on getting shut of you."

"I don't doubt that I deserved it." He says.

"We've all done things we regret in the heat of the moment but no one deserves to lose their job over it." She tells him and he can see no lie on her face. "Mrs Hughes never quite saw it that way, at least not where you were concerned. I always thought she had it out for you."

"Then why is she being so kind?" He asks, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "I thought…"

He lets himself trail off and wonders if he's been played a fool.

"Oh, dear." Miss O'Brien says. "Have I upset you?"

"No." He says and then repeats himself, his voice a little stronger, "no."

"You must understand that wasn't my intention." She tells him. "Only, we were very good friends before and I don't think it's right of her to take advantage of someone in your condition. I wanted to warn you."

"Of course." He says. "Thank you."

She just smiles.

* * *

The next few days pass slowly as he works at building up his strength.

After his first day out of bed, he goes downstairs for each meal and spends the hours in-between, the ones where he doesn't feel like he's going to fall asleep where he stands, in the servants' hall. There he talks to the other staff and works at getting to know them once more and it's so hard and strange at first because sometimes he'll find himself in a conversation with someone and they'll forget that he's not the person they think he is.

Daisy, especially, is bad for talking about a past he does not remember, bringing up people or events that are alien to him, before remembering halfway through a sentence and cutting herself off with rushed apologies and a red face.

Ivy is sometimes just as bad but Mrs Patmore usually tries to keep the two of them too busy to bother him too much. She always has a kind word for him, though, and gives him small tasks to do when he finds himself restless and bored with reading.

Alfred doesn't speak to him much or look at him, really, and Thomas doesn't really understand what he's done wrong. Anna tells him that he shouldn't worry, that he hasn't done anything, and Alfred just needs some time and he believes her because he cannot imagine a woman who is so genuine and warm-hearted ever telling a lie.

He wishes he could feel the same about Mrs Hughes.

He finds himself doubting her and himself. He second-guesses her every word and action and feels guilty doing so. He takes to avoiding her when he can and tells himself he's doing the right thing because Miss O'Brien wouldn't lie to him about something like that, not when they were friends before.

The whole situation confuses him and he questions Miss O'Brien about it extensively but he doesn't find the courage to bring the matter up with anyone else, afraid that they might think him ungrateful for everything the older woman has done for him.

Mr Carson often looks at him disapprovingly and Thomas is unsure if this is because of his treatment of Mrs Hughes or his condition or if Mr Carson has always looked at him like that. He does his best to please the older man but nothing that he does seems to warrant the butler's approval. Not even when he finishes the repairs on his Lordship's jacket, using skills he doesn't know he has, one afternoon when Mr Carson leaves the garment unattended in the servants' hall.

He has to spend time with Mr Carson, though, as he relearns his job and ever so gradually takes on his duties once again.

Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes both watch his every move intently and are quick to send him to rest if he appears fatigued or pale.

He finds, once he returns to dressing him, that Lord Grantham is just as bad and he doesn't know whether he should feel touched or irritated that the man asks after his health so often.

Jimmy thinks the whole situation rather amusing and he teases Thomas endlessly about being mollycoddled but is the worst of everyone when it comes to forcing him to rest or to finish all of the food on his plate at mealtimes.

And it's hard because most of the time he _is_ tired and his head hurts and he hasn't the energy to eat and his mood deteriorates so quickly that he has to bite his tongue to keep himself from snapping at those around him.

It is hard but he's getting better so he knows it's worth it.

Even if it's just for those brilliant smiles that Jimmy sends in his direction when he's reached the end of another day without incident, it's worth it.

* * *

Close to three weeks after the incident on the stairs, on the day that Dr Clarkson's colleague from Edinburgh is due to arrive, both Thomas and Mrs Hughes are asked to join Lord and Lady Grantham in the library.

Neither of them know what it concerns and Thomas is unusually quiet as he walks through the corridors at Mrs Hughes' side.

Anxiety over the doctor's impending visit combines with an irrational worry that he is somehow in trouble and he has to fight to keep the fear from his face.

"You'll be fine." Mrs Hughes tells him, seeming to understand what he is thinking without him having to speak. "If you were in trouble then you'd be on your way to see Mr Carson and not Lord and Lady Grantham. No, I imagine this is about something else entirely."

She's right.

Lord and Lady Grantham are both grim-faced when Thomas and Mrs Hughes arrive in the library and after a few pleasantries they get down to the business of why they have called the meeting.

"How would you rate Dr Clarkson's treatment?" Lord Grantham asks and Thomas notes the tension between the couple seated before him. "Satisfactory?"

"He has been most helpful in what have been very difficult circumstances, my Lord." Mrs Hughes says. "I honestly believe that Mr Barrow wouldn't be with us today if it weren't for Dr Clarkson's care and expertise."

"Do you now?" His Lordships asks, looking thoughtful.

"I do, my Lord." Mrs Hughes replies.

"And you, Thomas?" Lady Grantham asks in a soft voice and Thomas thinks this is the first time he can remember her speaking to him, though, they have crossed paths a few times since he has returned to his duties. "What do you think?"

"Dr Clarkson has been very good to me, your Ladyship." He tells her, honestly. "He has been most thorough in his treatment and his advice has always been sound. His is surely a man of great ability and I cannot find any faults, my Lady."

"That is good to know." Lady Grantham says and her face relaxes into a smile. "What you have just said has given me great confidence."

"Yes." Lord Grantham says and Thomas can't help but think he doesn't seem as pleased. "Yes, thank you both. You may go now."

Thomas waits until they're halfway down the back stairs before he asks, "what was that about?"

"Lady Sybil, I expect." Mrs Hughes tells him, shooting him a small smile. "Her baby is expected very soon and I imagine that Lord and Lady Grantham are feeling a little nervous. It is their first grandchild, after all."

"I see." He says. "Do they have reason not to trust Dr Clarkson?"

"I shouldn't think so but I don't pretend to understand half of the going-ons in this house."

They reach the bottom of the stairs and, as Thomas starts towards the servants' hall, Mrs Hughes catches his sleeve and halts his progress.

"Is everything alright, Thomas?" She asks. "Only I feel like you have been avoiding me recently."

He tries not to squirm under her grip and mumbles, quickly, "why would I do that?"

She looks at him for the longest moment, a stern look on her face, and he can feel the blush colouring his cheeks, "I don't know."

He opens his mouth to speak before closing it again, unsure of what to say or who to trust.

Mrs Hughes sighs and her face softens, "you needn't look so frightened. You're not in trouble, Thomas, I just wish I knew what was going through that head of yours."

"It's complicated." He tells her.

"I don't doubt that it is." She gives his arm a gentle squeeze before letting go and he sees a tenderness in her eyes that makes his heart ache. "If you need someone to talk to then you know my door is always open, don't you?"

He nods and offers her a small smile, "thank you."

He turns to leave but she stops him once more, "and, Thomas?"

"Yes, Mrs Hughes?"

"If you want someone to be there with you when you see this new doctor…" She trails off and he understands her meaning.

"Thank you," he says again and his smile is brighter than before. "I'll let you know."

"See that you do." She says and he watches as she marches away, her keys rattling with each step.

* * *

"Are you nervous?" Jimmy asks him.

"About what?" Thomas asks in return, though, he knows full well what Jimmy is talking about.

The younger man rolls his eyes, "this new doctor, course."

"Yeah." Thomas admits, ducking his head slightly. "I don't know what he's going to do yet."

"Suppose you'll learn that soon enough." Jimmy says and he takes a sip from his cup of tea.

"Imagine I will."

"Do you think he'll be able to get your memories back for you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't seem very enthusiastic." Jimmy says and he's frowning. "Don't you want to remember?"

"How else am I going to keep up with whatever Daisy keeps prattling on about?" He asks, forcing a lightness into his voice that he doesn't feel.

"That's not what I meant." Jimmy says.

"I know what you meant." Thomas snaps, a surge of anger forcing the words from his lips. "Why do you keep pushing this?"

"Why don't you?" Jimmy's voice is hard. "This is your whole life, Thomas, and you don't seem the slightest bit interested in getting it back!"

"Perhaps I'm happier this way?"

Jimmy laughs but it holds no humour, "you can't really believe that, can you?"

"I had no friends before." He tells Jimmy and is surprised by his ability to keep his voice level. "Save Miss O'Brien, why would I want to go back to that?"

"Miss O'Brien wasn't your friend. You didn't have any friends." Jimmy is nearly shouting and Thomas doesn't understand why he's saying these things. "And you have no friends now. Do you honestly think they talk to you because they like your company? You're nothing to them and the sooner you realise that the better."

"That's not true." Thomas says and his mind spins. "Why are you saying these things?"

But Jimmy doesn't get chance to answer because Mrs Patmore comes striding into the room, demanding, "what on earth is going on in here?"

"Nothing, Mrs Patmore." Jimmy says, shortly, and Thomas can't stand the way the younger man is looking at him. "We were just having a private conversation."

"It didn't sound very private to me." Mrs Patmore says with upraised eyebrows. "Or to anybody else in the kitchen."

"It won't happen again." Thomas tells her and he stumbles to his feet, his vision greying in a way that it hasn't for days. "I have to go see to his Lordship now."

It's a lie and they all know it because his Lordship is currently eating luncheon but Thomas needs an excuse.

He needs to escape.

He makes his way outside and does not feel the freezing wind that should revive him and clear his fuzzy mind.

He feels strange and numb and it's like his body does not belong to him and he has to close his eyes to keep tears from spilling down his cheeks.

He doesn't understand.

He truly doesn't.

And his head is a dizzying swirl of thought but he doesn't want to think. Not about what Jimmy said or the doctor or anything.

He doesn't want to think or speak or do anything at all and he suddenly hates his life and himself and the world around him.

Because it is all so _unfair_.

And he thinks he must have done something truly terrible in his past life to warrant such punishment as this because he feels alone, so horribly alone, and it is terrifying.

He doesn't want to be alone.

He lets himself collapse against the cold stone of the house and sink to the floor when his legs can hold his weight no longer.

His head is pounding and it's the first time in days and he just wants the pain to go away.

"Thomas?"

And suddenly someone is sitting next to him, pressing into his side, and Thomas knows that it's Jimmy without opening his eyes.

"Thomas…" Jimmy says, quietly. "Thomas, I'm sorry… I didn't mean to lose my temper."

"But you're not sorry for what you said?" He asks and he sounds drained even to his own ears.

Jimmy doesn't say anything for the longest time and Thomas doesn't want to think what that means.

"My mouth ran away with me." Jimmy says at last. "I didn't mean half of what I said."

"And which half would that be?"

"You do have a friend." Jimmy tells him. "You have me, you'll always have me."

And Thomas knows this is meant to make him feel better but it doesn't because he doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N- **And chapter three :D Thank you so much to everyone that has reviewed, you've made me very happy! I hope you enjoy this next chapter and please don't forget to let me know what you think!

* * *

"Well, let's get down to business, Mr Barrow. Or may I call you Thomas?"

"You may." Thomas says, dully.

"Jolly good, I always feel that much more can be achieved when on a first name basis with a patient." Dr Edwards says and Thomas knows the words are not directed at him but at the host of Crawleys that have come to witness the doctor's work on his 'most curious' condition. "Helps put them at ease, you see, if I talk to them as a chum rather than a doctor."

Thomas shifts in his seat, keeps his eyes trained on the floor and notes, almost petulantly, that the doctor has not offered Thomas the same courtesy that Thomas has allowed him.

He guesses that Dr Edwards wants to impress, with his Lord- and Ladyship, Mr Crawley, his mother and Dr Clarkson in attendance, and he feels himself growing frustrated with the older man because he just doesn't seem to understand just what Thomas is going through. It doesn't help that Mr Carson is also present or that Jimmy is standing by ready to refill empty teacups.

He's scared and his mind is spinning as his stomach twists and turns and he wishes he could be anywhere but where he is. He feels too exposed and he knows whatever this doctor has planned is going to happen with an audience, one that looks at him as if he were a curiosity found in museum rather than a real human being, and it makes him feel sick.

And he knows he's pale and that his hands are shaking but he also knows he has to try to keep his composure in front of his employers. Mr Carson has already spoken to him about etiquette and not embarrassing the household in front of such an esteemed guest. Thomas knows he's meant to keep his weaknesses hidden. He knows this but knowing doesn't make it easy to do.

"You must understand that your case is a most unusual one indeed, Thomas. I have worked with many a people who have trouble with certain memories or activities after one accident or another and most recently with a number of shell shocked fellows returning from the war but I have never in all my years met anyone who has lost their memory in its entirety. It is for this reason that I feel we must proceed with a certain amount of caution. The mind is a delicate structure and I do not wish to cause irreparable harm that might cause you to fall into madness."

Thomas feels any remaining colour drain from his face as Lord Grantham asks, "but, surely, Doctor, you don't expect it to come to that, do you?"

"No, no, I expect we shan't have any problems but I do wish to make Mr Barrow aware of the dangers my treatment might pose." Dr Edwards explains and Thomas doesn't feel at all relieved. "You do understand, don't you?"

"That all depends, Dr Edwards," he says, trying for calm and collected but missing by at least a mile, "on what your treatment involves."

The sudden recollection of Lord Grantham's suggestion those three weeks prior causes him to freeze in his seat.

His heart races and his mind is filled with blood and pain and screaming, screaming, _screaming_…

"Thomas?"

He blinks and whispers, "no surgery."

"What was that? I didn't quite catch what you said." Dr Edwards asks and he reaches out to take Thomas' wrist but Thomas snatches his arm back before he can get close.

"No surgery." He repeats, louder, and he cradles his hand to his chest. "I don't want _that_, okay? I don't-."

"Of course." Dr Edwards cuts him off and he's staring at Thomas with a knowing look on his face. "Of course, you have nothing to worry about in that respect, old chap, I have nothing of the sort planned for you. Now, may I take your pulse?"

"Why?" Thomas asks but he holds his wrist out for the doctor who takes it with cold hands.

"Just as I expected," Dr Edwards says after a moment, "your pulse is quite fast."

"What does that mean?" Lady Grantham asks and Thomas sneaks a look at her and can see nothing but concern on her face.

"All in good time, my Lady." Dr Edwards says and offers her a smile before turning back to Thomas. "Tell me, Thomas, what images appear in your mind when you think of the word 'surgery'."

"Blood." Thomas tells him, his voice flat and tired, and he shudders as his mind is flooded with sights and sounds he can't keep at bay. Words tumble out his mouth and he doesn't know where they come from, "there's always so much blood and screaming and it never stops. Never. I try to help, I try to get the blood to stop, but it never does and there's nothing- I can't. I can't. I'm sorry."

"Please, there's no need to apologise." Dr Edwards tells him. "You have done remarkably well."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." Lady Grantham says and Thomas has to refrain from burying his head in his hands and weeping.

Jimmy catches his eye from across the room and offers him the smallest of smiles.

Thomas wonders if it is meant to be encouraging or lend him strength because he feels nothing but the fear that threatens to drown him.

"Thomas was a medic during the war." Mr Crawley says, causing Thomas to look at him, sharply. "I expect that this is what he is recalling."

"I believe you're right, Mr Crawley." Dr Edwards says. "I have seen this in many cases of men returning home from the war, where they perhaps forget people or events only to remember upon seeing or hearing something that reminds them of these things. I believe that this is what we have here with Mr Barrow, on a much larger scale, of course. His memories are merely repressed, not forgotten, and I wish to work with him over this next week, and possibly further into the future depending on how successful the process is, to trigger his mind into remembering what it has hidden."

"What if I don't want to remember?" Thomas snaps and his voice is shaking. "Do I not get a choice?"

"Mr Barrow." Mr Carson says, the warning clear in his voice. "You are forgetting yourself."

"I don't want to remember." Thomas ignores Mr Carson and raises his chin in defiance even as his lips wobble. "Not if it's like that, I don't want to remember."

"I'm afraid the human mind doesn't quite work that way." Dr Edwards tells him in a voice that Thomas thinks is meant to be reassuring but instead comes across at patronising. "Quite on its own your mind has begun the process of remembering, I only wish to speed this along and spare you the difficulty and time it would take to occur naturally."

"And how are you going to do that?" He asks, his voice hard.

"Mr Barrow." Mr Carson says again.

"No, no, it's quite alright." Dr Edwards says, aiming his words at Mr Carson. "Matters of great importance such as this usually bring out the worst in a person. I daresay I would react in a similar fashion if I were in were in Mr Barrow's shoes."

"I don't believe there is any excuse for such rudeness." Mr Carson says, drawing himself up to his full height. "Especially in the presence of ladies."

"Have a heart, Carson." Lord Grantham tells the butler. "Her Ladyship and Mrs Crawley are not offended. Barrow is simply asking questions that we would all rather like to know the answers to."

"Indeed, my Lord." Mr Carson murmurs but Thomas isn't interested in his displeasure.

"How are you going to make me remember?" He asks again.

"By telling you everything I could discover about your life." Dr Edwards says with the smallest of shrugs, as if the answer were obvious. "I've done a great deal of research, you see, and I believe by making you aware of past events, some in very specific detail, that I can prompt your mind into returning some of your memories. Of course, it is not certain that my words will have any affect but, based on what I have seen so far today, I am most hopeful."

* * *

Mrs Hughes is waiting for him at the foot of the stairs when he returns to the servants' area after his meeting with the doctor. She takes one look at him before letting out a long sigh and leading him to her parlour.

"I'd make us tea but, by the looks of you, you could do with something a little stronger than that." She gives him a kind smile and pours them both a glass of sherry. He accepts his with shaking hands. "You look tired, Thomas. I hope that doctor of yours knows what he's doing."

"He seems pretty certain of himself." Thomas all but whispers.

"And what does his Lordship think?"

"I'm not certain but I think I'll find out later, while I'm dressing him for dinner." Thomas tells her. "But he agreed with the doctor to let me have my appointments in private from now on."

"And so he should. You're a human being, not an exhibit in a museum."

Thomas works up the energy to smile and takes a sip of his sherry, "I had a very similar thought myself."

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

He shakes his head and his vision swims, momentarily, and he can't help but think that he has not recovered from his discussion with Jimmy earlier in the day. Now the fear and anxiety has melted away, he is reminded of the pounding in his head and the pure exhaustion that pulls at him.

With this comes the memory of Jimmy's words and doubt and uncertainty wage war in his troubled mind.

Suddenly, he wants to cry.

He doesn't.

Instead, he says, "I'm afraid Mr Carson isn't very pleased with me."

"I shouldn't worry about Mr Carson if I were you but I can speak to him if that would make you feel better."

"I don't think it would make any difference but thank you all the same."

"Why do you say that?" She asks, frowning.

"He doesn't like me." Thomas tells her as if it is the simplest thing in the world and maybe it is. He can't help but think that maybe there's something wrong within him, something that pushes the people around him away and causes them to hate him. "But I don't doubt I deserve it."

"Now, we'll have a less of that." Mrs Hughes tells him, sharply. "What's brought this on?"

"Nothing." He says.

She purses her lips and he looks anywhere but at her.

"Thomas… I want to help you but I can't do that if you don't talk to me. I'm not a mind reader."

"No." He says, shortly. "You're not."

"Then tell me what's wrong."

"Why-?" He starts before cutting himself off when his voice wobbles. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "why do you care about me? We weren't friends before."

"No." She agrees. "We weren't."

And as much as he knows it to be true, it still hurts him to hear her confirm it.

"You were still young when you arrived at Downton, a tad too full of yourself and eager to show off what you knew. It shouldn't have but it rubbed me and Mr Carson the wrong way and we were probably harder on you than we should have been." She tells him and her voice is soft. "You gave as good as you got, naturally, but you became horribly cruel when we took on a new footman."

He frowns and takes another sip of his sherry.

It rests uneasily in his stomach.

"William was a sweet boy and everybody liked him."

"And I was jealous?" It's meant to be a statement but it leaves his mouth sounding more like a question.

"It took me longer than it should to realise it but, yes, I think you were." She drinks from her own glass. "You were horrible to him and didn't win yourself any friends in the process. But then the war came and you went off to the front and we didn't see hide nor hair of you for two years."

"And that's where I hurt my hand." He says, flexing the scarred appendage without thought. "At the front."

She nods, "you came back to the village after you were injured. You took up working with Dr Clarkson at the hospital and then here at Downton once it was turned into a convalescent home for wounded officers. There weren't many of us who were pleased to see you, I must admit, and you didn't exactly help yourself."

"No," he says, and he gives her a humourless smile as his stomach turns, "I doubt I did."

"You had changed, though." She tells him and she reaches over and gently squeezes his forearm. "I don't think any of us saw it then, I know I most certainly hadn't. So we treated you the same as we ever had, full of scorn and with suspicion, and you reacted in kind. I didn't realise until after your accident, when I actually sat down and thought about it, that you had changed and that we had never given you the chance to show it."

He sets his glass down and rubs at his tired eyes, feeling completely drained.

"There was one night, perhaps the first after your accident, when we were certain you weren't going to pull through and all I could do was think that I didn't know you, not properly, at least."

Again, he doesn't say anything and, for the longest time, she doesn't either.

They sit in silence and sip at their sherries.

"My mother always said to me, 'we are the choices we make.'" She tells him at last. "And now you've had those choices taken away from you… There's only _you_ left, Thomas, and you're a better man than any of us have ever given you credit for."

* * *

Thomas spends the rest of the afternoon in a daze.

His movements are sluggish and clumsy and everything he does seems to take twice the effort it usually would.

Lord Grantham talks to him about Dr Edwards when Thomas dresses him for dinner but he doesn't hear. His mind drifts and he's unable to focus on anything but what he's doing, his hands still shaking and the world still threatening to grey and fade to black.

He isn't surprised when Lord Grantham tells him to ask Carson to attend to him after dinner but something deep within him twists and hurts and he feels ashamed.

He has let Lord Grantham down and he knows he has to make it up to his employer for all the kindness he has shown him. Thomas knows he's lucky to still have a job and a home.

It is perhaps for this reason that he doesn't inform Carson of Lord Grantham's request and instead forces himself through the rest of the evening.

He sits with Miss O'Brien in the servants' hall as the family eat dinner and somehow manages to smile when she looks at him with critical eyes.

"Well?" She says. "Aren't you going to tell me how it went?"

"And why would you like to know?" He asks, feeling suddenly guarded.

"Because I'm your friend, of course." She tells him. "I care about you."

"That's funny." He says and he doesn't know where this sudden boldness has come from when he feels so weak and tired. "That's not what I've heard."

Something shifts on Miss O'Brien's face and he can't quite read her expression, "and who might you have heard that from?"

"It's none of your business." He tells her and he knows he's on dangerous ground but he can't keep the words from escaping.

"I see." She says and he thinks that he's perhaps pushed her too far. Her next words rid him of this delusion. "You best watch yourself, Thomas."

"Oh, yes? And why might that be, Miss O'Brien?"

"Because I've heard them talking upstairs." She says, her voice dangerous, and she leans towards him. "And they're not at all pleased. I'd get better as soon as I could if I were you, their patience is wearing thin. One wrong move or one wrong word and I don't think they'd hesitate in giving you your marching orders."

His heart stops beating in his chest and he fights to keep his face blank as fear threatens to overcome him.

She gives him a cruel smile and stands, "yes, I'd be very careful if I were you, Mr Barrow."

He's left sitting alone at the long table, barely breathing as tears and terror threaten him, and Miss O'Brien's words repeat in his mind over and over.

The thought that he has nothing or no one beyond Downton strikes him then and he quakes in his chair because he doesn't know where he'd go or what he'd do if he were to lose his place here.

No one had spoken to him about his family and he has come to the realisation that he has none.

He has no one and he has nothing but Downton where he has perhaps only one or two people who care for him.

And it isn't enough.

If Lord Grantham chose to get rid of him then there would be nothing they could do to help him.

He lose his home and everything he knows and he'd be alone.

Completely and utterly alone.

And it's all he can think of as the evening slips by around him, his face carefully blank as panic bubbles underneath his skin, and he tries to keep himself together long enough to see out the remainder of his duties.

"Barrow?" Lord Grantham says, confusion colouring his tone, when Thomas arrives to help him undress after dinner. "What are you doing here? I thought I made it quite clear that Carson was supposed to see to me this evening."

"I wanted to apologise, my Lord," Thomas tells him and he doesn't know how he's able to keep his voice from shaking, "for my earlier behaviour. It won't happen again."

"Don't be ridiculous." The older man scolds and he pulls on the rope at the side of his bed and, absently, Thomas imagines the sound of the bell tinkling in the servants' hall. "Go downstairs at once and see that you get some rest."

"I'm sorry if I've displeased you, my Lord." He says and this time he can't keep the tremor from his voice. "It was not my intention, your Lordship, you must understand that I only wish to serve you to the best of my abilities."

"And how do you expect to do that when you look ready to faint away at any moment?" Lord Grantham asks and Thomas stares at him with a growing sense of helplessness smouldering in the pit of his stomach. "Now I must insist that you leave at once, it won't do for you to be too unwell to visit with Dr Edwards in the morning."

"No, my Lord," Thomas agrees, numbly, "it wouldn't."

"Goodnight, Barrow." Lord Grantham says.

"Goodnight, my Lord." Thomas breathes and he stumbles from the room, tears clouding his vision.

And he knows he's in trouble now because Lord Grantham is going tell Mr Carson about what he's done and Carson will see that he's without a job and a home before the night is over.

He's such a fool and he knows he has no one to blame but himself.

Miss O'Brien had warned him, hadn't she? And he had done nothing to help himself and he's terrified.

He has nowhere to go.

There is no one who is going to help him.

All he can do is wait.

He goes straight to his room, avoiding the crowded servants' hall as the rest of the staff sit and wait for their supper, and he knows that nothing he can do will save him.

He has to be ready for what's to come, if he's not ready then he knows he won't make it through.

He empties his drawers and wardrobe as if on autopilot and throws his belongings into the suitcases he finds under the bed.

And he's crying and he can't breathe but he knows he has to be ready for when it happens but he's so scared and he doesn't want to die.

He doesn't want to die but he knows he will.

They haven't even given him a gun to go over the top with, how's he meant to come back if he has no way of defending himself?

It's a thought he's had before, he knows this, and an opinion he's voiced more than once but nothing will ever change.

He just has to be ready.

He has to have his things close by and he has to be ready.

He sits down and waits.

He waits and he waits and he thinks he falls asleep because suddenly there's a bang and it's time and he has to go.

He can hear men screaming already and he knows he has to help them even if he wants nothing more than to run away from this place.

Mud and blood cake his feet and his legs and he struggles to free himself from the bottom of the trench even as he hears voices calling out for him to help them.

And he's terrified because he knows he'll more than likely not come back once he goes over the top but he has to go, he has to.

This is what he has been waiting for.

And then his feet are free and he climbs over the ladder and over the top and there are bodies everywhere.

The dead and the dying heaped on top of one another as bullets and blood and rain fall down on him.

A shell explodes and he is thrown to the floor as the men in front of him are torn to shreds. Chunks of flesh and blood and bits of uniform cover him and he feels sick.

The terrible smell of burnt flesh and the blood and the knowledge that _he's going to die_ and it's all too much.

He gags and chokes as he loses the contents of his stomach.

And he can't breathe, he can't breathe, and he's going to die and there's nobody to help him.

He's going to die.

He's going to die!

He's screaming and he can't breathe and he can taste blood in his mouth and it mixes with the vomit and it's all too much.

It's too much and-.

Hands clamp down on his shoulders and they're shaking him and shaking him.

He awakes with a scream.

"You're alright, Mr Barrow." Someone, _Alfred_, he remembers, says. "You're at Downton, you're safe."

There are tears streaming down his face and vomit on his chin and shirt and the floor and it takes him a minute or two to realise that he's no longer in his room.

His heart is still pounding in his chest and he can't breathe properly and it's so dark he can barely see, "where am I?"

"Downton Abbey." Alfred tells him and the sound of footsteps clattering down stairs reaches his ears. "In the corridor outside of the servants' hall."

He heaves himself into a sitting position, his arms barely able to support his weight as does so, and a voice barks, "what on earth is going on here?"

"I think Mr Barrow was having a nightmare, Mr Carson." Alfred answers for the both of them but Thomas barely listens. "I was on the way back from the kitchens after re-filling my water jug…"

His mind is still thick with blurry images that he is struggling to make sense of and the smell of his own vomit combines with the remembered smell of blood and burnt flesh and makes his stomach turn anew.

"What's that horrible stink?" Either Daisy or Ivy asks as Mr Carson questions, "what are you doing down here?"

Someone lights a candle and in the dim light Thomas can see Alfred looking at him, waiting for him to speak.

"I don't know." Thomas mumbles and then repeats, louder, "I don't know."

There's an uneasy silence before Mrs Hughes clears her throat, "I think we've had just about enough excitement for one night." She says, her voice stern and leaving no room for argument. "Off to bed with the lot of you, I don't want to hear any complaints about being tired come the morning."

Thomas closes his eyes and when he opens them again Mrs Hughes is knelt next to him.

She presses her hand to his forehead and frowns, "you're freezing, Thomas. What are you doing out of bed?"

"I don't know." He tells her and he has to fight to keep his eyes from shutting. "A nightmare or a memory. I don't know."

"Should we get the doctor?" Alfred asks, sounding worried.

"I think we should." Jimmy says and Thomas lifts his head and catches sight of the blonde in the dark. "I'll go wake him."

"Nobody's waking anybody." Mrs Hughes says, firmly. "The two of you are going to help Mr Barrow back to his bed while I clean this mess up. I expect you both to be in your own beds by the time I arrive to check Mr Barrow is settled, do you understand?"

"Yes, Mrs Hughes." The two footmen mutter and suddenly Thomas is being hauled to his feet.

He struggles to keep his feet under him and Alfred and Jimmy end up supporting the majority of his weight as they make their way up the stairs.

He slurs apologies that Jimmy rolls his eyes at and Alfred hushes and he feels a hot blush staining his cheeks.

"What were you doing?" Jimmy whispers as soon as they reach the top of the stairs and are far enough from Mrs Hughes to not be overheard. "You're not even in your pyjamas."

"He must have fallen asleep." Alfred murmurs, talking as if Thomas wasn't currently propped up between them. "Mr Carson did say that his Lordship had sent him to bed to rest, maybe he laid down and just nodded off?"

"Thomas?" Jimmy asks.

They're at the door to his room now and his whole body is trembling with exhaustion.

"I don't know." He says for what feels like the hundredth time.

He tries to remember but his mind is foggy and he struggles to hold onto any one thought for longer than a few seconds.

"Come on," Alfred says. "Let's get him to bed before Mrs Hughes comes up."

They push the door open and the weak light of the moon filters through the gap in the curtain and Thomas feels both Alfred and Jimmy stiffen on either side of him.

"Good Lord." Alfred mutters.

"What?" Thomas asks but it's more of a moan than a word and he's losing the fight to keep his eyes open.

"I'll get the lamp." Jimmy says and Thomas misses the warmth of his body when the younger man leaves his side. "Don't want to trip up on anything in the dark."

Thomas' knees buckle and Alfred grasps him around his waist before he can fall.

"Mr Barrow?" He asks.

"Get him onto the bed." Jimmy says. "I think he's about ready to drop."

Thomas lets his eyes slip closed and only pries them open when he feels someone tapping on his cheek.

"I think Mrs Hughes wants to speak with you." Jimmy tells him and Thomas realises he's now in bed. "I think you gave her a bit of a fright."

"He gave us all a bit of a fright, screaming like that." Alfred, out of his view, says. "I thought he was being murdered."

"Do you think you were remembering?" Jimmy asks. "Maybe something from the war?"

"War?" Thomas repeats and his whole body tenses.

"Jimmy…" Alfred says. "Leave him be, we shouldn't be getting him worked up again."

"No, you shouldn't." Comes Mrs Hughes voice and she suddenly replaces Jimmy in perching on the side of his bed. "And I thought I told you to go to bed?"

"We thought it might be best to stay with him, Mrs Hughes," Jimmy says, "just until you got here."

"Well, I'm here now. Off to bed you go." She waits until the door closes before speaking again. "What have you gotten yourself in for this time, Thomas?"

"War." He says again and he sees mud and bodies and blood.

She brushes some of his hair back from his face, "ah, is this what this is about?"

"I had to be ready." He says and he knows his words are running into one another and he's not making much sense. "To go over the top. I had to be ready, just in case, and they didn't give me a gun. But I had to go. I had to."

"But you're home now." She reminds him. "You're home and you're safe."

"Home." He whispers, latching onto the word, and the tension rushes from his body.

She smiles, "yes, home. I don't suppose you were planning on running away, were you?"

He sees the haphazardly packed suitcases on the floor and says, "I had to be ready."

"Of course you did. Now let's get you out of those clothes, I can't imagine it's comfortable sleeping in your day clothes."

She helps him into his underclothes and he thinks he should be embarrassed but can't find the energy to be.

"That's better." She says and she draws his sheets up around him like he imagines a mother would for her child. "Mr Carson will dress his Lordship in the morning so you can rest for a while longer before your meeting with Dr Edwards. Everything else we can talk about in the morning."

"I'm sorry." He murmurs and his eyes slip shut.

"Don't be." She says and she gives his hand a small squeeze. "Now go to sleep."

He does as he's told.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N- **I'm so sorry about the wait between this chapter and the last, I've had a busy couple of weeks at uni! Hope you enjoy this chapter, please review to let me know what you think.

Huge thanks go to Naughty Captain Crieff, you are a wonderful person. Thank you so much for all your help!

* * *

"Go get sat down." Mrs Patmore tells him as she spoons kedgeree into a silver serving dish. "There'll be a tray through for you in a minute."

"Thank you, Mrs Patmore." He says and offers her a small and tired smile.

She sighs and mutters something under her breath and Thomas would think she was annoyed at him if he hadn't seen the relief on her face when he had appeared in the kitchen only second earlier.

He turns to leave when Ivy asks, "what was all that about last night?"

There's a sudden quiet in the kitchen as everyone's eyes fall on him. Ivy and Daisy pause mid-action while Mrs Patmore tries to look like she's not interested in what he has to say as she continues to empty the pan of kedgeree and Jimmy and Alfred stand by the kitchen counter, dressed in their livery and ready to take the platters of food up to the breakfast room once it is served.

And they're staring.

They're all staring.

Words stick in his throat and he holds his head high even as heat colours his cheeks.

Ivy breaks the quiet, looking between Thomas and Alfred with wide eyes, "why were you screaming, Mr Barrow?"

Memories of bodies and blood and death cloud his vision and he clenches his scarred hand into a fist.

It feels sore and stiff.

"Mr Barrow?" Daisy asks.

"I think I started to remember." He says at last.

Ivy gives him a tentative smile, "that's good, isn't it?"

"I suppose." He murmurs and he pushes the memories away as bile rises in the back of his throat. "That's why that doctor's here. To make me remember."

Ivy's smile crumples into a look of worry and Mrs Patmore clears her throat, "alright, you lot, that's enough of that. His Lordship'll end up being down before everything's has been taken up at this rate. Alfred, don't just stand there! Get this taken up, will you?"

"Yes, Mrs Patmore." Alfred says and he takes the tray from Mrs Patmore, disappearing from the kitchen but not without frowning at Thomas first.

"Will it always be like that?" Ivy asks him, toying with the corner of her apron. "When you remember?"

"Ivy, am I talking to myself? Get that toast off the flame before it burns." Mrs Patmore barks and Ivy rushes to do as she's told, her cheeks turning pink.

Daisy is still looking at him, though, her eyes huge, "was it the war?"

Thomas's heart starts to beat faster in his chest, "yes."

"Leave it alone, Daisy." Jimmy tells her, almost harshly.

"Are you still here?" Mrs Patmore asks.

"The tray's not ready yet." Jimmy says.

"Not you." Mrs Patmore says and Thomas realises that she means him. "Go sit before you fall down, Thomas. I'll bring your breakfast through in a minute."

He nods and retreats quickly to the servants' hall and tries to ignore the fear that twists at his insides.

He doesn't want to think about the night before but he knows he can't avoid it.

He's not stupid enough to hope that what happened could be forgotten by the rest of the staff, not when he had woken them up the way he had, screaming and covered in sick, and he knows it won't be for a long time yet.

And he knows they'll have questions that they'll want him to answer and he feels that he owes it to them, after all that they've done and put up with, to answer them.

And yet…

And yet he doesn't want to answer them.

He wants to keep these memories to himself and have something that only he truly knows about.

He wants to have secrets and motivations and reasons for his actions and be _human_.

He's tired of being the empty canvas that everyone else paints upon.

But he knows it can't end and it won't end.

Not now.

Not for a long while because, until he starts to remember, he's nothing but a stranger with a familiar face.

He hates the person he is not and knows that he has to remember if he ever wants to live without fear of the unknown clinging to him and dragging him down.

He cannot afford to cause more disruption to the lives of those around him, not after Miss O'Brien's warning the previous day, and so he knows he must remember.

However scared he is, however reluctant he is, he must remember.

* * *

"I'm glad we can meet like this." Dr Edwards says once they are settled in the parlour with a tray of tea that Thomas pours for them both. "I feel we will get a lot more accomplished in a private setting like this. It must have been ghastly for you yesterday with your employers watching on."

Thomas gives a slight nod of his head and rests his cup and saucer on his lap, not quite sure that his shaking hands would be able to keep from spilling.

"I must ask for your forgiveness in yesterday's business. You must understand that I intended for our meetings to be private from the start. I could not, however, refuse Lord and Lady Grantham's attendance for the first session when they asked it of me, not without seeming impertinent, that is. I am, after all, a guest in their household."

"I understand." Thomas says.

"Good." Dr Edwards smiles at him and Thomas thinks that there might be more to the man than he showed the day before. "Now, would you like to discuss what happened last night? Mr Carson tells me there was some kind of disturbance."

"There was." Thomas agrees and takes a sip of his tea as thinks of what to say. "I think… I think that I remembered some things from the war."

"I see." Dr Edwards nods and waits a moment before speaking again. "And do you want to talk about what happened or would you prefer to have time to think about what you remembered? Memories of the war can be very unsettling, even for those in full possession of their memory's context."

Thomas frowns, "you're not the man you were yesterday."

Dr Edwards smiles, "we all have our masks that we must wear. Lord and Lady Grantham had certain expectations that I felt must be met. They are paying me, after all."

"They're paying you?"

"You didn't think my services were coming out of your wages, did you?"

Thomas opens and clothes his mouth a few times before saying, "I don't know what I thought."

A mixture of gratitude and wonder build within him and he finds himself warmed at their generosity.

"Lord Grantham is a kind master, is he not?"

"He is." He agrees even as the Earl's words from the night previous rise fresh in his mind. It takes him a moment or two to work passed the hurt that surrounds them but he thinks he understands Lord Grantham's intention now. "He is very kind."

There is a momentary silence where they both sip at their rapidly cooling tea.

"May I make a suggestion?" Dr Edwards asks.

Thomas nods.

"Let us leave talk of the war until another day. I believe such memories are best not being reclaimed by an unready mind and, from what I can gather from the talk I've heard of last night, you are most unready. Let us talk about your early years and your family, it is possible we may find happiness there." Dr Edwards tells him.

"But it's not a certainty." Thomas says and he tries to hide a frown.

"We each have good and bad in our past, Thomas." The doctor tells him. "One may outweigh the other but we each have both. I expect you will remember both in time."

"I hope so." Thomas says and he truly does.

He doesn't want to remember anything else from the war.

He wants to remember the good.

He wants to remember his mother and his father and what it felt like to be loved and love in return.

Dr Edwards pulls a small notebook from his suit pocket and flips through the pages until he finds the one he's looking for.

"Before we go any further… I must tell you that I know what you are and I don't judge you for it." Dr Edwards pauses as Thomas heart pounds in his chest and he tries to think of what the doctor means. "My son, Walter, was of the same… _persuasion_. It took his mother and I some time to come to terms with and we were very cruel to the boy during this time. He ran off to war in shame and, I'm afraid to say, got himself killed." There is another pause and Thomas is still fighting to understand. "I see now that his affliction was not through choice but simply the way he was put together. There was nothing that could be or should be done to change him or other men of his kind, I know that now. I bitterly regret treating him so unkindly when he could do nothing to stop himself from preferring the company of men over women."

"Oh." Thomas says and, without meaning to, he thinks of Jimmy.

"You must be careful, Thomas." Dr Edwards warns. "There is a prison sentence for those caught acting upon their feelings so I would advise the utmost discretion if you decide to do anything. Not everyone thinks as kindly of your sort as I do and, while I believe Lord Grantham may be reluctant to have you reported to the police, you may find yourself in trouble if it becomes common knowledge. You would most certainly lose your position here at Downton Abbey and at this time I think this is something you cannot afford."

Thomas nods and the fear of the previous night, the fear of losing his job and his home and everything he knows, flares in his chest, "thank you, Dr Edwards. I will be careful."

"Good." Dr Edwards smiles at him before looking down at his notebook, "now, shall we talk about your family?"

"I think I'd like that." Thomas tells him as the fear fades and is overcome with longing to learn about the people who are responsible for bringing him into the world.

"I gathered the majority of my information from the records so I do apologise if my speech is a little dry." Dr Edwards says and Thomas nods, anticipation building in the pit of his stomach. "You were born in the rooms above Barrow and Son's Clock and Watch Repairs on York Street in Manchester on the 22nd January 1891. Your father's name was William, like his father and his father's father, and he was the third generation of Barrow to own the shop on York street. Your mother, Molly, was the only child of Irish immigrants Thomas and Kathleen Byrne and she, unfortunately, died a week after your birth."

"What?" His stomach drops.

"She had childbed fever." Dr Edwards explains. "There was nothing that could be done."

"I see." Thomas says and his heart aches for the woman he never had the opportunity to know.

This isn't what he was expecting.

Where were the good memories?

"Your mother's parents moved in with your father and they helped raise you and your brother and sister."

Thomas started, "I have a brother and sister?"

"William and Ruth, they were eight and nine respectively when you were born."

"William and Ruth." Thomas repeats and their names feel alien on his tongue. "There was a footman at Downton called William. He died during the war. We were never friends… I think that was my fault."

He doesn't know where this talk of William the footman comes from, words slip from his tongue as hope bubbles in his chest and his mind tries to process what he has been told.

He has a brother and a sister.

He is not alone.

He is not alone.

But there's something wrong.

He can feel it in his gut and he can see it on Dr Edwards' face.

"They're dead, aren't they?" He asks.

"William was killed in action at the Somme. He was part of the 16th Manchesters." Dr Edwards tells him, his face grim. "He was survived by a son and two daughters. His wife died of the Spanish flu shortly after the war's end."

"And who looks after the children now?" He asks and the hope is back and it is stronger than ever.

He has family.

He has a nephew and nieces and he is not alone.

"Your sister."

"She's still alive?"

He's smiling now, so wide that it hurts his face, because he has a sister and she is alive.

His sister is alive.

He is not alone.

"Did you speak to her?" He asks. "Is she okay?"

"Yes, I spoke to her and I can assure you that she is quite well. She and her husband took over the shop after William and his wife died, the children live with them and their own daughters."

"More nieces?"

"You have five in total."

Thomas is sure that his face is going to split in two, "I have a family. I thought I was alone but I'm not… I have a sister and nieces and a nephew and a brother-in-law."

It is then he notices the pained look on Dr Edwards' face.

"What's wrong?" He asks and his smile falters.

"When I spoke to her… I don't quite know how to say this." The older man avoids looking at him.

He is crushed by the doctor's next words.

* * *

The session goes on for another hour but he barely notices the passage of time.

Dr Edwards describes the house Thomas grew up in and the street he lived on in minute detail. He lists even more family members, telling him their occupations and where they lived and when they died, and tells Thomas second-hand stories of his childhood learnt from an old neighbour.

Dr Edwards drones on and on and on and Thomas struggles to distinguish one word from another.

He is too numb and the words do not sink in.

He is not surprised when they spark nothing within him.

Not like words about war which had made him tremble and quake and _remember_.

He has remembered nothing and he feels nothing.

He is empty.

The hope he had felt has been cruelly snatched away and he's just so empty.

So, so empty.

He wants to scream.

He wants to scream and pour all the emptiness out.

He wants to feel and he wants to hurt.

He wants to hurt _so badly_ because hurting means he understands.

And, more than anything, he wants to understand.

He's had enough of life's games and yet the world still mocks him.

He wants this to be over.

He wants to be strong and sure once again.

He wants to wake up and continue on with the life he cannot remember and dismiss this one as nothing more than a terrible nightmare.

But knows he cannot.

The scar on his hairline, the one that his fingers brush when he combs his hair in the morning, the one he tries to avoid whenever he looks in the mirror, is very real and cannot be put down to his imagination.

No matter how much he wants it to be.

This is real.

This is his life.

This emptiness is his life.

He hates it.

He wants to remember.

He wants all that is good and bad about his past to come back to him in one great rush so that he can become himself once more and return to his previous existence.

He's tired of being an empty shell.

So, _tired_.

He makes it halfway down the back staircase before he has stop.

His breaths are coming in short gasps and his vision is clouded by tears but it all feels so separate, as if it isn't happening to him.

And maybe it's not because he's not Thomas Barrow.

He's not the Earl of Grantham's valet.

He's not the son of William and Molly Barrow or the younger brother of William and Ruth Barrow.

He is not an uncle or a friend or a work colleague.

He is nothing.

He feels his knees give out and he registers the cold of the floor as it seeps through his trousers.

It is hard to breathe and it is hard to see.

He does not feel real.

He wonders if he's dreaming.

It feels like it.

Everything is drifting away from him and nothing feels real.

Perhaps it's not.

Perhaps nothing is real.

Perhaps everything that Dr Edwards told him is something he has concocted in his troubled mind to punish himself for the night before.

To punish himself for being the horrible person he was.

To punish himself for waking instead of dying.

This sounds right.

It sounds right and it doesn't frighten him as much as it should.

The idea of death.

Had he ever been frightened of death before? In his waking life?

He has, he knows he has, because there was blood and bombs and bodies…

The war.

He was afraid of dying then.

Now he's only scared of being alone.

No, not scared.

Terrified.

And he can't breathe and he can't see and he doesn't want to be alone.

He hears footsteps then, echoing off the cold tile of the stairs, and a sob catches in his throat.

"Thomas… Mr Barrow, are you alright?"

Thomas doesn't have to look at the other person, he knows by voice alone that it is Jimmy.

"What's happened?" Jimmy asks and suddenly his warm body is pressed into Thomas' side. "Have you had a turn?"

Thomas shakes his head.

He doesn't know what's happened but it's easier now with Jimmy next to him. He finds that he can breathe and blink away the tears and remember that he is not alone.

That Jimmy is his friend and he is not alone.

"I just needed a minute." He tells the younger man and he wonders, vaguely, if he is lying or speaking the truth. "After speaking with Dr Edwards."

Jimmy looks at him, dubiously, but doesn't say anything.

Instead he wraps an arm around Thomas' shoulders and tugs him against his body.

Thomas freezes, remembering Dr Edwards' warnings, but eventually lets himself sag against Jimmy, his head coming to rest on the younger's shoulder.

Jimmy is his friend.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said the other day." Jimmy murmurs after a moment or two. "You shouldn't have to remember if you don't want to. It's your life, after all."

Thomas smiles, faintly, "I don't think I have any choice. Dr Edwards seems to think my memories are going to come back whether I want them to or not."

"Oh." Jimmy says.

"I just wish they'd hurry up about it." Thomas says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't like living like this."

"I-."

"My, my, don't you two look cosy?"

They both spring apart at the newcomer's words and Thomas' stomach sinks when he spies Miss O'Brien on the stairs behind them.

"I should be getting back to work." Jimmy says in a rush and he takes the stairs two at a time on the way down.

Thomas pulls himself to his feet and feels suddenly cold at Jimmy's absence.

Miss O'Brien is looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a knowing look in her eyes, "you like him."

He starts down the stairs, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Miss O'Brien is close on his heels and he can hear his heart pounding in his chest, "come off it, Thomas, we were friends once. I know about you."

Thomas pauses at the bottom of the stairs, his mind falling over itself to try and work out the meaning behind her words, and turns to face her with a frown, "friends don't threaten like you did yesterday."

"I didn't threaten." She tells him and try as he might he can't read the look on her face. "I only meant to warn you. I don't want to see you getting into trouble."

"I don't believe you." He says and watches as her nostrils flare.

"Perhaps you don't." She says. "But we were friends once and that counts for something with me."

He shakes his head and turns to leave.

"You like him." Miss O'Brien says again and he stills at her next words, "and he likes you, too."

"What?"

Miss O'Brien keeps her mouth closed as a housemaid walks passed them, "perhaps we ought to talk somewhere a little more private."

He follows her through the kitchens, ignoring the curious eyes that follow their progress, and to the courtyard outside.

She pulls a cigarette case and box of matches from a pocket in her dress and he watches as she lights one and takes a long drag. She offers the cigarettes to him, "do you want one?"

He's about to turn her down when he catches a mouthful of smoke.

Something in his mind stirs, "we've done this before."

She smiles at him and he thinks she's genuinely happy, "more times than I can remember."

He takes a cigarette and the box of matches and the instinct that guides his hands when he's repairing something of his Lordship's has the cigarette lit within seconds.

He takes a long drag and can't help but match Miss O'Brien's smile as the smoke fills his lungs.

It feels comfortable and familiar and the smoke smothers the emptiness within him.

"Now do you remember?" She asks.

He nods because he does.

Miss O'Brien's face is veiled in smoke and it is flashing before his eyes as the seasons change and her face regains and loses youth.

Yes, he remembers.

Nothing specific, no words or feelings, but he knows there is truth in her words. They have stood together in this courtyard, cigarettes in hand and smoke in their lungs, more times than either of them can count.

"We were friends, Thomas." She tells him. "Why can't we be friends again now?"

"What you said yesterday." He reminds her.

"Like I said, I was warning," she takes a quick puff from her cigarette, "not threatening."

He nods, though, he is not fully convinced.

They smoke in silence for a minute or two before Thomas clears his throat, "what is it you were saying about Jimmy?"

Miss O'Brien is smiling at him again but it is different this time. This difference sets him on edge, "he likes you."

"Oh, yeah?"

She nods, "Alfred tells me he doesn't shut up about you. It's always 'Mr Barrow this' or 'Mr Barrow that.'"

"We're friends is all."

"Of course you are." She says. "You don't have to keep secrets from me."

"Then why do you keep them from me?" He asks and suddenly it doesn't matter how much smoke he inhales, nothing can stop the emptiness from consuming him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You said we were friends before." He says and he drops his cigarette to the floor and stamps it out. "So why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me think I was alone?"

"Why didn't I tell you what?" Miss O'Brien asks, her eyebrows knotted together in confusion. "I don't know what you're going on about."

"Why didn't you tell me that I have a family?"

Her eyes widen and her cigarette falls from her fingers but he doesn't know if it by design or from shock, "family?"

"I have a sister in Manchester."

"You've never spoken to me about her."

"Why?" He asks, though, he doesn't expect her to answer.

He can feel tears building up in his eyes again and he runs a hand over his face as he wills himself not to cry.

"She spoke to Dr Edwards when he was in Manchester, looking for information about my past." He tells her and he knows he shouldn't. "She told him that we haven't seen one another for eleven years, not since our father's funeral."

She puts a hand on his forearm and he wipes away the tears the stream down his cheeks.

The emptiness is gone now.

It has been replaced by a hurt that burns him from the inside out.

Still, he doesn't understand.

"She told him that she doesn't want to see me, not even now. Not after he's explained what had happened." He closes his eyes and folds his arms around his middle. "Why? Why won't she see me? What could I have possibly done?"

Miss O'Brien doesn't say anything.

Instead she offers him a handkerchief and another cigarette.

* * *

"And how did your meeting with Dr Edwards go this morning? Much better that yesterday's, I hope." Lord Grantham asks as Thomas helps him dress for dinner.

"Yes, my Lord." Thomas says. "Speaking to the doctor has been very helpful."

"Good, I'm glad to hear." He holds his left arm out and Thomas attaches his cufflink. "Pompous sort of chap, isn't he?"

"I don't know about that, my Lord." Thomas says with the smallest of shrugs.

They are quiet then and it isn't uncomfortable.

Thomas' hands don't shake as he holds out Lord Grantham's jacket for him to step into but he thinks there's something in his expression that makes the older man frown.

"Barrow…" He says and he sounds tired. "You must forgive me for the way I spoke yesterday, it was not my intention to upset you. I see now that you were only trying to do your duties and relieve some of the pressure your condition has put on Carson and the rest of the staff."

Thomas tenses and Lord Grantham's face falls.

"That's not what I meant." He says.

"I understand, your Lordship." Thomas says and he offers the Earl a small smile. "I won't let what happened affect my work. I promise I'll do better."

"That's not what I meant." Lord Grantham repeats. "I only meant that I approve of your dedication to your work and to myself. But that does not mean I would have you push yourself beyond your limits to see to me. If you are unwell, Barrow, then I must insist that you rest and not risk your health. Do you understand?"

"But Mr Carson-."

"I have spoken with Mr Carson and he agrees with me." Lord Grantham cuts him off. "I think that business last night must have given him a fright."

"You know about that?" Thomas asks, swallowing thickly. His surprise almost makes him forget that he is talking to his better but he manages to tag a "my Lord," onto the end of his sentence to keep himself from being rude.

"I imagine everyone does."

Thomas shifts on his feet and hopes the horror he is feeling does not reflect on his face.

It is one thing for the rest of the staff and Dr Edwards to know but his Lordship and the rest of the family?

It makes him feel ill.

He wonders if they're all laughing at him for being so stupid and weak or if they are wearing those fake looks of sympathy as they hungrily eat up any gossip they can get their hands on.

He feels guilty then for thinking so badly of people who have only been kind to him, even if they do sometimes stare at him as if he were a character from a penny dreadful.

"There's no need to be ashamed." Lord Grantham says. "The war was a ghastly thing. I doubt anyone has pleasant memories of it and in the present circumstances..."

There's a knock on the door then and Carson enters, "I'm sorry to disturb you, my Lord."

"Not at all, Carson, I think we're just about finished in here. What seems to be the problem?"

"It's Lady Sybil, my Lord." Carson says and then he clears his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Dr Clarkson has been called for."

Thomas is dismissed and Mr Carson tells him to instruct Mrs Patmore to keep dinner on hold and send the footmen up to serve drinks before both he and Lord Grantham make hurried exits.

The kitchen is a rush of activity when Thomas arrives with Mrs Patmore shouting orders to her staff and Alfred and Jimmy setting out trays, bickering between themselves.

"Heavens!" Mrs Patmore cries, looking to the ceiling and muttering to herself before turning to Thomas once again, "and pray tell, how long are we supposed to keep the food warm for?"

"Until the baby's born, I suppose." Thomas says with a shrug, not understanding why she's asking him.

Jimmy snorts and Alfred fails to hide a smile and Mrs Patmore rolls her eyes at the lot of them.

"Get out of my kitchen, the lot of you." She says. "I have enough on my plate without having to listen to your cheek on top."

"Us as well?" Ivy asks and Thomas notices the way she smiles at Jimmy.

"You're a daft mare, Ivy Stuart. Of course-."

"Mr Carson wants the two of you upstairs." He says, nodding at Alfred and Jimmy and cutting Mrs Patmore's tirade off before it can really begin.

He searches out Mrs Hughes after that and passes on what's happening upstairs before retreating into the servants' hall.

Miss O'Brien catches him before he can sit down, "fancy a smoke?"

"Go on then." He says and follows her into the dark of the courtyard.

It's a relief to be outside, away from the hustle and bustle of the servants' hall and the kitchen, and he smiles, faintly, as the cool night air brushes his face.

"You're going to have to see about getting your own." Miss O'Brien says as she offers him a cigarette.

He gives her a non-committal sound as he takes one and she rolls her eyes at him.

They smoke in silence.

Thomas stares up at the stars and feels comfortable in what he now recognises to be their familiar quiet.

They don't speak until they've finished their cigarettes.

"About earlier…" he starts.

"Save your breath." She tells him. "What you've told me won't go no further."

"I appreciate that." He offers her a smile that he is sure doesn't reach his eyes.

He's still not sure if he can trust her but knows he has no choice now.

"What are you going to do?" She asks him.

"About what?"

"Your sister." She says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Are you going to write to her?"

"I haven't thought about it." He tells her, his body tensing. "I don't know if I'm going to do anything."

She nods and lets the subject drops for which he is thankful.

They have another cigarette and as they stub their ends out Miss O'Brien lets out a long sigh.

"It's going to be a long night." She says. "Come on, let's see about getting a cup of tea."

He follows her into the warmth of the kitchens without a word.


End file.
